


Flickers of Life

by Cuddly_Totoro



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, Kurapika & Pairo shenanigans, M/M, Pining, Reincarnation, Truly unstable minds, kuramama's woes, teehee, very unfortunate love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-01-22 01:37:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21292766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuddly_Totoro/pseuds/Cuddly_Totoro
Summary: If Kurapika and Chrollo knew each other in a past life
Relationships: Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer/Kurapika
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	1. Rebirth

**Meteor City  
Approximately twenty years before the present day**

The city was barely waking.

It rose from the dead, with streets hissing, and drunken ramblings kicked into clouds of dust. 

This moment,

when the sun broke over the horizon, when the air was so thick you could almost touch the bands of light between the low buildings of Meteor City. The word building, though, was of course an exaggeration. From a distance the city looked nothing more than strangely organised dunes of trash. And inside one such home, sat a boy. Nine years old, living with two others. He snapped the book in his hands shut, eyebags stark against the paleness of his cheeks. Shutting the book always felt cruel, like forcefully reverting an unfurled rose back into a bud, or thrusting a torch at the tentative offshoots of an expanding forest. 

It was always this moment. Of waking from a daydream.

He felt - 

The kind of feeling he had that day, when his sister laid in a broken heap at their door. He felt the same kind of feeling that came before, during, after the act of lashing out with a knife in his hands.

When he shoveled dirt over both their bodies.

“Kurooo!” Chrollo tried to ignore the way he jolted at the stupid name.

All three feet and a bit of her Machi trundled into the dirt and dust kitchen, rubbing at her eyes and yawning while a distinct growling sound her stomach growled.

She belligerently toddled towards him

“Kuroooo!” whined Machi, short pink hairs stabbing out in all directions.

Chrollo jolted.

“Stop calling me that. Not Kuro, Chrollo.” He reminded her for the millionth time since he picked her up from the streets, or since she picked him up from the streets, as she prefers to call it, making sure to elongate the sounds of his name.

* * *

It was his first night alone. His fingernails were crusted with dirt, dry and sticky, patchy and rubbed raw.

He stopped at a familiar building.

It was the brothel his mother worked at. A mafia establishment. A tiny girl in the front was convulsing violently, her flinches backlit by a gleeful grin. The Madame was hitting her with a metal pipe, methodically, without pause.

Chrollo, freshly family-less watched, on.

And a scene quickly built itself in his head.

He could make a new one.

His hands were still itching from violence, itching for more. In what seemed like a schism in time, the woman’s blood was splashed like cheap wine in the dirt and the girl was on his back, hands fisted into his shirt as he ran.

* * *

Machi kicked him in the shin. _More abuse from this brat_, a voice in his mind supplied mournfully.__

_ _“It’s so hard for me to say. I think you should be nicer to immigrants like me. Also, what’s for breakfast?”_ _

_ _Machi swept unimpressed eyes over a bleak kitchen._ _

_ _Chrollo raised his eyebrows. Funny that she should say every word perfectly other than his name. _ _

_ _“I’m not making anything for an ungrateful brat who can’t even pronounce my name properly.”_ _

_ _Machi fixed him with a glare before snarking back._ _

_ _“I’m only doing it because you keep on flinching, you weirdo. Also, don’t call me a brat, you brat! You’re only four years older than me!”_ _

_ _Chrollo tried to keep himself from flinching again._ _

_ _He sighed, shaking his head, and jerked his head towards the door. It was a dilapidated, half rotten mess, as much in Meteor City is._ _

_ _“Okay, okay, come on lets get some food.”_ _

_ _It was alright for now. Thorns were becoming on her._ _

_ _Nobunaga found the two outside after he finally woke up. They sat by two wilting corpses in the street opposite their makeshift home, nibbling on bread, with coins haphazardly scattered around. He blanched upon seeing words drawn in patterns, blood spiralling in all directions with Chrollo at the heart, sitting on the dirt, splintered and bloodied bat still in hand._ _

_ _“Oi, oi, oi please tell me they were at least the mafia or something! You can’t just go around killing people!”_ _

_ _“Stop fussing, Nobunaga.” Chrollo said around the lump of bread in his mouth. “We made sure they were mafia.” He knew what it meant to be a part of Meteor City better than this newcomer, vagrant from a far off island stuck in constant civil war, who had much to learn._ _

_ _Nobunaga quickly shifted into a grin. “That’s fine then!” He ruffled Chrollo’s hair fondly, blissfully ignorant of or ignoring the boy’s discomfort. “Sorry, sorry. Also, I saw you finished another book. Jeez, do you not sleep?” Nobunaga groused. “It’s so hard finding books around here.”_ _

_ __ _

_We are the hollow men_  
_We are the stuffed men_  
_Leaning together_  
_Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!_  
_Our dried voices, when_  
_We whisper together_  
_Are quiet and meaningless_  
_As wind in dry grass_  
_Or rats’ feet over broken glass_  
_In our dry cellar_

(T S Eliot, ‘The Hollow Men’)

**Lukso Province  
At the Same Time**

The entirety of the Kurta clan clustered around the hut. “Stop jostling!” Elbows were swung at unsuspecting, soft stomachs. “Then don’t push!” “I can’t see anything!” All vying for front row seats in front of a tiny window. Births were especially celebrated in this secluded corner of the forest. For the dwindling clan, every hand had a part in raising the children. Some of the elders were welling up at the corners, reminiscing when Patras and Pion were children, their misdeeds, having to raise them like pass the parcel, countless accidents, lectures -

Some eyes turned scarlet.

Desensitised to a lifetime’s worth of obnoxious affection and lack of respect for privacy, the couple inside effortlessly ignored the congregation outside.

“Pion, Pion, look at how beautiful our little son is! I knew our baby was going to be super cute. He’s really taken after my best features!”

“You’re mistaken, you fool. He’s gorgeous because he resembles me.”

“You’re deluded.”

Pion gingerly poked at their son’s forehead, still pink and steaming, - _like a steamed bun. Wow I’m really craving for some of Grami’s steamed buns_ \- before stuffing his balding head into his hands and yelling in frustration and shame.

“We’ve only thought of girl’s names!”

Patras snorted, the sound wracking her exhausted body. 

_I hope she doesn’t suggest - _

“Well, that’s a shame, isn’t it. Wait, I have an idea! How about Kurapika?”

Pion sighed, trying to convey with the utmost of his ability his disdain for her naming sense. “It’s because of this weird obsession you have with that name that we haven’t been able to think of any good boy names!”

“Kurapika is a great name for a strong man!”

Pion once again tried to shame his wife by aggressively squeezing his face at her. 

She ignored his freakish contortions.

“You think whatever is on your face right now looks like a frown? Looking at you try to glare is giving me contractions again. Ugh whatever. You know that Kurapika is my hero! It’s a good name!”

“Yeah, yeah, of course I know,” Pion shot back, huffing a stray hair out of his eyes. “You never shut up about it.”

“That’s because he’s beautiful! It’s a beautiful story!”

“Isn’t naming our child after a tragedy kind of bad luck?”

Patras wriggled an arm from her side to smack him, though it felt more like a light tap, with how beautifully muscled his chest was.

“Well, do you have any ideas?” 

Her eyes twinkled as if to say: _that’s right. Stay down._

“Also,” Patras steamed on, “Are you trying to say a little bad luck will be able to stop our wonderful child?”

Pion held up his hands in surrender.

“Okay, okay, you’re right. Kurapika it is!”

Outside, washbasins and rags just used in childbirth slowly filled with new waters. 

It had started to rain. 

(Much to the horror of the spectators outside)

* * *

_Unbeknownst to Kurapika and Chrollo Lucilfer, they had known each other, loved each other, centuries before they met in this life. But the world was cruel to them even then._

_The Kurta clan in those days were much crueler, much more numerous, completely deserving of their demonic reputation. They were a clan that revelled in bloodshed, in sacrifice. Against the extreme and indiscriminate violence of the Kurta only the people safely concealed behind the battlements of Fort Lukso could lead a life with any semblance of security, though at great cost._

_In this time a Kurta warrior, Kurapika, first of his name, met a stranger from Fort Lukso._

_His name was Kuro._

_They were singularly miraculous,_

_Fleeting._

**Lukso Province  
Many centuries ago**

“Kuro!” Kurapika screamed, throat rupturing from force. The metallic scent of intermingling of blood and smoke enveloped the clearing. There was a wooden pyre in the centre, part fire, part flesh. Kurta warriors stood on and watched.

His former comrades, warriors he called his brothers, held him down even as his bloodied fingernails scraped desperately into the hard dirt ground towards the fire.

Kuro’s body was now a shaking blackened mass in the centre of the fire. Kurapika could only see red, red, red. Fire 

Blood

Their eyes

“Let him go. Let him go. Please.” Kurapika could barely string together the words. There was no hope for Kuro. It was too late. But what else could he beg for?

“Why?” His voice snapped like glass shards.

His grandfather’s eyes were cold. The only pair of Kurta eyes still unlit.

He said nothing to his grandson on the floor.

Suddenly, the blackened effigy stopped trembling. 

And as Kuro’s life was silenced a woolly fuzz clamped over Kurapika’s mind, crackling up his thoughts, shooting lightning into his twitching limbs. The black lump in the fire was hideous, he thought, and almost snorted in incredulity.

The Kurta warriors restraining Kurapika loosened their grips.

Kurapika fell to the ground, knees scraping on the ground. 

He felt like laughing. 

It was strangely quiet. No sound but the vicious hiss of flames, sparks fanning out like pinprick kisses, no sound apart from the hauntingly beautiful murmur of wind caressing pine.

Kurapika’s memories flickered slowly.

Light dappling Kuro’s peculiarly pale face. Nightly rendezvous, hands held in the clamouring stillness of night, their mutual warmth. The scent of the forest, so jarring from the sickly stagnant smells of Fort Lukso where they shared their secret hopes and dreams with each other, in the hope that sharing them would guarantee forever. Their hopes that the war between their people could end. Their stupid dreams.

_he’s dead. _  
_he’s dead_  
_he’s dead_

His face crumpled like an avalanche, snowballing into disfigurement.

“You will die for this.” 

“I swear to all the gods, if there are any, you will die.” 

The clearing filled with a metallic ring as his executioner swung the sword. 

_Kuro. I can’t wait to see you again._

But they would not reunite for centuries, and even then, 

It would have been far less cruel for them to have never met again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stories of reconciliation and revenge and the heights (or should I say the smelly stinking pits (haha)) of tragedy make me so uwuwu inside.
> 
> This first chapter was such a motherfrogging pain to write!!! I agonised over trying to make every mushy noodle sentence I put down into something al dente, then gave up, wrote the next three chapters, and wriggled through this hellhole some more before realising that…
> 
> Realising what?
> 
> Who knows (I am having severe angst about Kurapika & Chrollo being too out of character)
> 
> Anywhoosies, can we all appreciate how much of a millennial Eliot is!!!?!? He’s so emo, which is probably why ‘The Hollow Men’ is the beautifuwwest protraction of the Chrollo in my mind’s wittle eye - someone who stuffs themselves with meaningless preoccupations (the metaphorical straw of the poem’s second line) in an attempt to distract themselves of the gaping hollowness that defines their sorry existence.


	2. Daze

**Meteor City  
Feitan**

_Shade without form, shade without colour, _  
_Paralysed force, gesture without motion; _  
  
_Those who have crossed _  
_With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom_  
_Remember us - if at all - not as lost_  
_Violent souls, but only_  
_As the hollow men_  
_The stuffed men. _  


(T S Eliot, ‘The Hollow Men’)

Chrollo laughed as he ran, twirling the chain of keys around his index finger.

The sun was setting on Meteor City in a hazy orange glow.

The safe screeched open at the twist of the key. Against the sickly glow of the moon through an omnipresent smog, the blue gem’s glimmer stirred something within Chrollo. He traced its facets, fingertip pressed intently against the edges. 

He left a smear of blood.

Chrollo breathed out through his nose. He tossed the jewel aside and fell onto his haunches, gazing listlessly at the brown dried clumps on his hands and across his torso.

He appreciated the beauty of these trinkets, but there was something, somewhere they didn’t quite reach.

He felt like he was snatching at smoke

or ghosts

“Oi. Who the hell are you?” 

_Kuro, Kuro, Kur - Shut up_, he thought, shoving the chatter into the vacant room at the back of his head.

In the doorway of the inelegant dump that harboured Chrollo’s freshly stolen jewel, stood a tiny boy with hard eyes wedged between wefts of black hair. Something in his hands glinted.

“Where are my brothers?” he demanded, his pupils flickering from the stains on Chrollo’s body to the open safe.

Chrollo held up his hands, lips stretched in a facsimile of a smile around glimmering eyes. Flecks of dried blood floated to the ground like dust.

“They’re gone.”

His smile broke in surprise as the blade in the boy’s hand clattered against the ground. He sunk to the ground, shaking viciously. Chrollo moved forwards, eyes widening. “Oi, are you oka-”

The boy was laughing. 

Now that Chrollo was closer to the wraith, the criss cross of scars and snaking bruises on the boy’s skeleton arms suddenly did not look like the usual patterning of dirt couture of Meteor City.

The boy was patchwork splintered skin and fresh scars and open wound.

“I should have left them alive,” Chrollo realised, for you. 

_For you to hurt them like they hurt you. _

“Yeah, you should’ve.” He was still laughing, hiccuping in between. Hyena, child. Chrollo couldn’t quite tell which word was better used to describe him.

He should be used to this kind of thing already.

“Hey.” Chrollo pocketed his prize. “Come with me.”

* * *

“What is he doing?”

“Oh. Don’t mind him. Chrollo is a ‘suppository’ of ‘beautiful things’.”

Feitan and Machi sat cross legged, leaning against crates. They were watching Chrollo watch his new stash.

“You meant to say ‘collector of beautiful things’, Machi!” Chrollo called out. “Where did you get the word suppository from?”

Machi stuck a finger towards his room, past the dust and dirt, before she remembered that Chrollo was in… _one of his moods_ and wasn’t looking anywhere except for the small pile in front of him. “One of the books in your room.” She rubbed a piece of hair in her fingers. “It was on the first page I flipped to.” she spared a side-eyed Feitan, who Chrollo had just brought home out of the blue, saying something along the lines of _I found him in a dump and now we’re cohabitating, joy to the world. _ “It was really disgusting. The hell do you read?”

Chrollo sighed. 

He should have hidden that one.

“Do you people do this all day?” Feitan spun a knife between his fingers.

Machi frowned. Was this newcomer critiquing their lifestyle already? “What?”

He gestured at Chrollo. “_This_.”

_This_ meant Chrollo in a daze, staring intently in front of him, lost to the rest of the world. Perched on a crate in front of the latest articles of his fascination, all kind of bloody and very much stolen.

The blue gem from today, a painting spanning the length of the wall. They had to steal some explosives to make the doorway large enough. A naked woman (a statue of a naked woman), and other such knick knacks.

He stayed like this for hours. Just

Looking

Even Machi wasn’t really sure what Chrollo gained from this.

Feitan yawned. “I’m bored.”

He would soon regret this admission.

“You won’t be bored for long!” A voice from outside hollered.

He really wouldn’t be bored for long.

There was a crashing sound from the entrance. Feitan jumped, and, it seemed, no one else did.

A huge man swung into the room.

“Yo! Whats up!” Nobunaga haphazardly waved a bottle at Chrollo and Machi in greeting, managing to slosh sake all over the floor. “The door’s gotten reaaa-lly big!” 

“Don’t spill on my stuff, Nobunaga.” Chrollo cautioned.

“Okay, okay.” He wobbled over to Feitan and pushed one eyeball right up to him. Feitan looked increasingly uncomfortable. His eyes flitted from Machi to Chrollo as if to ask seriously? I have to deal with this? 

“Eh? We have a new boy!” Nobunaga drooled over Feitan’s hair. “What’s a little twerp like you doin’ here?”

Feitan felt an irrepressible urge to break his fingers.

“I’m not little, old man. You wanna die?” 

“Woah, woah, little one! There’s no need to get all,” He waggled a long finger right up in Feitan’s face, “all defensive! Ha ha ha!”

Feitan lunged, knife in hand.

Machi sighed.

* * *

Every day new waste enters and leaves the city.

And every word the elders speak drifts into the crevices of every half carcass, into every alley, into the necks of broken bottles.

“It’s not enough.”

“The mafia still believes they can make us do anything for nothing.”

* * *

_Eyes I dare not meet in dreams_  
_In death’s dream kingdom_  
_These do not appear: _  
_There, the eyes are_  
_Sunlight on a broken column_  
_There, is a tree swinging_  
_And voices are _  
_In the wind’s singing_  
_More distant and more solemn_  
_Than a fading star. _  


Punctuating stagnant air, was the sound of water. Dripping endlessly, causing his head to ache.

It was so dark, and stiflingly, painfully hot.

Chrollo moved forwards, hand bracing against a wall as he stumbled towards the sound of the water. He felt faint.

There was a roar.

Boiling water suddenly rushed over him. His screams were lost in an explosion of seething bubbles. Burning liquid blazed into his lungs. 

He thrashed, trying to claw away the awful pain, before the water subsided with a sigh.

_What is happening. _

It was still pitch black and his head still hurt.

“Kuro?”

Chrollo flinched. 

_What is this feeling. _

It was building. 

How was it possible to feel so awful?

“Kuro, where are you? I can’t see you.”

The voice continued muttering, expanding, multiplying into a cacophony that brutalised its own sound.

_It’s always that voice. _

Chrollo realised that he’s dreamt this dream many times, for many years.

The voice was gentle, surprisingly so. Surprising, because the sound made Chrollo hurt. Hurt in a way he didn’t understand, in a place he couldn’t find.

His environment shifted again.

The ground slid away.

He started to fall.

_It burns. _

He landed in a clearing, on fire, unable to move.

In pain.

And there were eyes on him. But he only saw the two eyes right in front of him.

Scarlet.

Hair spun from sun rays.

And suddenly his focus wiped the rest of the scene away. 

Those scarlet scarlet were the most beautiful things Chrollo had ever seen. 

He burnt to a crisp in the gaze of those eyes.

Chrollo heaved as he woke up. He shivered, wiping the sheen of cold sweat off his face. Inhale, exhale, he reminded himself. _Slowly, slowly. _

Chrollo spent the rest of the week in a daze.

He spent his nights idly rifling through books he’d already consumed, exhaustion growing.

He was not _scared of sleep. _ That would be absurd.

He took anything he could get to stay awake. Suddenly his hands were shaking, his heartbeats brittle.

Chrollo liked to walk the length of Meteor City. His steps left behind a trail of dust. He loved watching the way it would settle onto rotting, wet trash. It amused him.

Children waved at him sometimes.

He would wave back, and wondered what children were like in other cities.

He knew they weren’t like this.

Needing to fixate on survival. Having to decide on whether you wanted to protect someone to the death or fight them to the death.

Thicker than blood and yet thinner than water.

* * *

Chrollo picked out the glass shards from his skin one by one. Machi huffed and shoved his hand away. 

“Just let me do it, you idiot.” 

“Chrollo, what’s gotten into you?” Feitan swung down from above, landing softly on the pads of his feet.

Chrollo stared at the neat row of stitches quickly closing his skin together.

“It’s nothing.”

Late at night, when he was brooding alone on the rooftop, Pakunoda approached him. She waved a bottle at him.

Chrollo took a few gulps silently, slightly gagging at the unpleasant bitter taste.

“Another one of your dreams?”

Chrollo nodded, passing the bottle back before leaning back.

“You’ve been acting really weird. Even Feitan has noticed. It’s different from usual, isn’t it.”

“I saw a face, this time.”

Paku hummed.

“Can I see?”

Pakunoda slowly leant over, giving Chrollo the time to move away before pressing her hand to his forehead, allowing the torrent of Chrollo’s dream to wash into her mind.

She sat up straight, blinking vigorously, the frayed ends of her shirt dragging across clumsy cobble.

Pakunoda frowned, Chrollo noticed with faint trepidation.

“That was strange. Your dreams are so clear.”

Chrollo thought back to the mire of his dreams. “Really? Are we talking about the same dream?”

“No, no. I mean, yes!” She looked genuinely distressed. “Your dreams feel the same as memories do.” She stared into the wine bottle. “Normally, dreams feel much more… elusive. I can’t drag up dreams the way I do with other thoughts. But for some reason, the ones you have are just as solid as if you were awake.”

Pakunoda grabbed his face again. “Also, is the face you see a man or a woman?”

Chrollo was bewildered. “I have no idea.”

“If only we had a name to attach to the pretty face,” she sighed.

Chrollo’s mouth quirked.

“Shame that all my dreams of this lovely person are nightmares.”

“A shame indeed.”

_Also_, she thought, turning away, a little sadder, _I don’t think you’ve ever felt that way before. _

_Warm. A little panicked. As if your heart was squeezing. _

“You felt strangely content, when the face appeared.”

Chrollo was beginning to doubt Paku’s judgement now. He most certainly did not feel anything other than pain.

A deep ache.

_Content. _

“No one in this city ever feels _content_.”

“I know you don’t,” she interjected, almost sharp. “But you did, just now, in that dream.”

“Nightmare.”

Pakunoda laughed as she nudged Chrollo with the bottle, now with fingerprints carving clear valleys between the film of dust.

“Okay, okay you stubborn fool.”

**Lukso Province  
On the precipice of discovery**

Kurapika finished wiping both of his swords and sheathed them with a metallic hiss. Feeling a presence at the door, he turned, expecting his parents.

It was neither of them.

_No. Nonono, he can’t be here. What is he doing here? _

_“What do you think you’re doing here?” he hissed, face paling, and grabbed him roughly by the wrist._

_Kuro struck him in the face. _

_“What do you think you’re doing, Kurapika?” he hissed. _

_Kuro continued, “There is so much blood on you. How many people have you killed, to have so much blood on you?”_

_His unspoken words hung. _How many of **my** people have you killed? __

_Even in his desperate misbelief, Kuro did not raise his voice. It was not in his nature to. Dark, thoughtful, captivatingly compassionate. So pale, so delicate. He was the stillness of a lake, the creatures lurking below, the dreams of stars reflected in the glassy surface above._

_“How many?” Kuro asked again, fingers twisted into Kurapika’s tabard._

_“I’m trying to protect us!” Kurapika grated through his teeth, pushing Kuro to the wall. “Unlike you! Why did you come here? Do you want both of us to die?”_

_“Please,” Kurapika whispered, pressing his forehead to Kuro’s shoulder. “I’m just trying to keep us alive.”_

_Kuro rested his face into Kurapika’s hair. And wondered until when would they have to do this dance on a knife’s edge._

__

**Meteor City**

Chrollo rubbed the oil from the side of his mouth and chewed.

And chewed,

And chewed,

And kept on chewing

“This is disgusting,” he mused.

“What meat is this?” asked Chrollo, wrinkling his nose as he tried to work his oesophagus into accepting the alien object currently colonising his throat. 

“It’s chicken.”, the woman lied. “Speaking of dead animals, how much do you think about death?”

_What is this woman saying_

“Lady, I’ve been slaving for you for the past week to taste your cooking.” He gestured unapologetically at the unconscious bodies at their feet, a prime example of the kind of slaving he had been doing.

“Everyone promised me your food was worth it.” 

Surely by now Machi and Feitan would be frothing at the mouth, laughing so hard at him.

“Come now, don’t be so mean to me.” The old woman sat on one of his victims and patted the backside of another.

“Sit, sit. I’m so lonely, Kuro.”

“It’s Chrollo.” mechanical, even as he dropped himself onto the cushiony seat.

“Yes, yes, yes, I know, you fool. You’ve been snarking back to me all week. How could I not know that your name is Kuro, not Chrollo?”

“No, that’s no-”

“Shut up, you fool! Do not speak back to women more beautiful than you!” she yelled, crooking one gnarled finger very painfully into his face.

“You’re unsightly.” He declared.

“Jeez, youth these days,” She muttered, blushing. “So shameless…”

Chrollo was debating whether or not to make a break for it.

“_Do not run from me_!” She screeched, right into left ear, which would unfortunately ring for the next four days.

Chrollo started, swiveling to eye her. “Did you just-” _read my mind? _

She ignored him, taking a frightening bite of one of her hellish skewers, moving straight into the existential, as old women do.

“Anyways, back to the matter at hand,” She stared at him, twisting one ancient eye towards him. “Do you ever think about death?”

“Of course I think about it.” 

“What about after death?”

Chrollo wrinkled his nose slightly. “I prefer to think nothing of post-death. A void, perhaps.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

“How would you know that?”

The ghastly woman winked at him. “It’s a secret,” pressing one gruesomely wrinkled claw to her lips.

“So what do you think happens after death?” He prodded. He might as well participate in this conversation, if he was stuck with her.

“Humans are reincarnated.”

She took another monstrous bite before resuming, not noticing or choosing to look past the way Chrollo was very uncomfortably trying to extract himself from his seat (the backside of some very unfortunate passerby) without making it obvious that he felt extremely threatened by the crazy woman.

“Reincarnation is a clean slate, no, it’s purer than that. Only the most fundamental vestiges of your soul remains. You take nothing with you into your next life. No memories, no feelings, yeehaw.”

Chrollo felt most positive that he was in the company of someone who needed help, and certainly not help he could provide. 

She stabbed him in the eye with a cruel finger. “The only one who needs help here is you, you idiot!” 

She then laughed with glee at him as he doubled over in pain, clutching his injured eyeball.

“But some people do remember.” Chrollo couldn’t tell if it was the dust hurting his eyes, but the body of the woman seemed almost… transparent for an instant? “You do.”

“I see.” Chrollo did not see of course. This woman was delusional. Better to play along.

“I know what you dream of, you fool. You remember the Kurta boy from your past.”

What in the world is a Culta boy?

“Kurapika remembers as well.”

“Kura - who?”

“You know, the beauty seducing you in your dreams. That’s him!” She cackled, wriggling all eighteen terrifying fingers at him “Hahaha that’s right!”

Chrollo glared at her. 

The hag continued in a softer tone.

“It isn’t by chance that you two have retained your memories, and even your names.”

“There’s a reason?”

She gazed at him, almost sad.

“I wouldn’t call it a reason.”

“What do you mean?” But by the time he finished the question, she was already gone, leaving him with burnt and awful chewy meat of an unknown origin in his mouth.

He dreamt again that night.

It was even more painful than before, and more vivid. The person in front of him chanted _you will die for this_, as he stood there burning in the pyre.

_What am I dying for? Why are you making me suffer? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk what present and past tense are
> 
> Hehe pakunoda and feitan have arrived! I love them so much TT
> 
> Pakunoda’s love for her spidery family was one of my favourite parts of the Yorknew arc - and unexpected! Going into hxh for the first time, I was expecting them to be the major antagonists for the rest of the story, but then they disappeared ansgknjagkjnsdfg
> 
> At this point of time Chrollo & Co are still children so I’m assuming that none of them have learnt nen yet - but the reason why Pakunoda already has her ability is because I’m assumer her ability (probably maybe) manifested like a gift from heaven
> 
> Ps Every time eliot brings up eyes my heart sings. The stanza I used for the dream featured the sacred E word twice! I really got the shakiez there
> 
> Can i just say that I keep on writing Chrollo/Kuro’s names in the wrong timelines. I just want some appreciation for the SUBatoMic pRecisiOn of mY laZer editing eyeZ. Thx. Especially when people in the present timeline call Chrollo by Kuro for funsies! I get so confused, man.
> 
> Ok I’m sorry what I really want to say is that they’ll be a lot more of Kurapika in the next chapter and I’m really looking forward to it! The saddest thing to me is how long Kurapika held onto his revenge quest despite actually having a really gentle and loving nature. It really goes to show the utter loneliness he must have felt in a world without all the people knew.
> 
> And on that note, laterz!


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